It's Curtains Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stagemanagers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
curtainsdown2016-10-26 10:43 am
stagemanagers) wrote in curtainsdown2016-10-26 10:43 am
and I know things now, many valuable things
[You remember dying. Maybe the memory is clear and bright and your body still aches from the cause. Maybe it was fast enough that you didn't feel it and don't remember what you went through. But no matter how you went out you're still trapped here.
When you open your eyes it might take you a minute to recognize your surroundings. It's your dressing room, that much is certain, but nothing is where you remember it. It's like everything has been picked up and moved to the other side of the room. The entire room has been perfectly mirrored from what it used to be and, upon leaving, it seems the rest of the opera house is just the same. If you remember one room being in the east wing, it's now in the west. If it was in the west, it's now in the east.
Welcome back to the Opera House, friends, you're not out of the woods yet.]
[ooc: Welcome to deadland, darlings! It's a perfectly mirrored version of the Opera House and each week, as new people die after new floors have been revealed, the stairwell doors will unlock and allow you to reach them. For example, week 3 victims will unlock floor 2 and so on and so forth. Also, all dead characters will wake up at their actual canon point.
Have fun because we have some fun things planned for you.]
When you open your eyes it might take you a minute to recognize your surroundings. It's your dressing room, that much is certain, but nothing is where you remember it. It's like everything has been picked up and moved to the other side of the room. The entire room has been perfectly mirrored from what it used to be and, upon leaving, it seems the rest of the opera house is just the same. If you remember one room being in the east wing, it's now in the west. If it was in the west, it's now in the east.
Welcome back to the Opera House, friends, you're not out of the woods yet.]
[ooc: Welcome to deadland, darlings! It's a perfectly mirrored version of the Opera House and each week, as new people die after new floors have been revealed, the stairwell doors will unlock and allow you to reach them. For example, week 3 victims will unlock floor 2 and so on and so forth. Also, all dead characters will wake up at their actual canon point.
Have fun because we have some fun things planned for you.]
week 1
no subject
The perfect "imposter."
I am not the traitor!
As I thought, the Fox was you.
The title is... The "Bookmark of Demise."
In other words... No matter how much we try, we wouldn't be able to solve it?
- Let's try it one more time.
Screaming, and clutching her head. She can't understand. She can't understand anything. She can't understand why she's even here...!
What the hell was the point of any of that?! Even if she won, would it have done anything?! How many times has she played out this role, killing someone who-
...
D-ne stays there for a long time. Trying to make sense of everything, and dwelling on the memories of her past...and of the trial. The people she met here. The reeling revelation of just how long it's been since she really interacted with anyone outside the club. It's far too much for her to take in. It's something that she's been destined to never understand.
At some point, though, what she does understand is that she can't stay there forever. There's something she has to do, if her intuition is right. It seems like, in this kind of story...
With each step, she trembles. She feels a sharp cold pain. Like the razor's back, going in and out and in and out of her body. Still, she pushes herself out of the dressing room, down the hall- the wrong one, at first, why everything is backwards she can't comprehend but she supposes it's fitting- and to the dining room.
Her destination is the place she killed Valjean, his makeshift prayer site. With any luck, he'll already be there. If not, she'll wait until he arrives. If he never does... Then she'll wait forever.]
no subject
He spent a moment sitting on the edge of his bed, breathing hard and checking himself for injuries. His chest is fine, his face and neck are fine, there's not so much as a speck of blood on his clothes. It's as if none of it ever happened. Were the memory of the razor plunging into him not so vivid, he might be able to convince himself it was just a dream. But he knows better. He was the one to finally end up dead in this place. He had feared finding someone else dead more than he'd thought it could happen to him, but if it had to be someone, this seems right. He was the eldest of all of them, after all.
To be frank, this isn't what he expected to happen after death. Wandering around the strangely mirrored Opera House, he finds everything more or less as it was, except that he's alone. No Heaven, no Hell - just a reflection of their former prison. He can't imagine why, but there must be a reason. It's almost a comforting thought. Perhaps there is still something he can do. Maybe he's some sort of spirit now, and can intercede.
He remembers more home now. The revolution. Meeting Javert again, still with the first face. Cosette's wedding. That brings him a great deal of comfort; she doesn't need him any longer. She's safe at home whether he returns or not. In fact, he had left her on his own already. It was anticipation of arrest that drove him, but strangely, he can't recall Javert ever coming for him. Instead, he remembers growing ill.
He doesn't quite remember dying there, but he knows it was coming. He had accepted it. And having accepted death once, he can do so again.
Valjean isn't at the altar when D-ne finally comes looking. In fact, the altar doesn't seem to exist here. That was disappointing to find, but he doesn't need one to pray. He did pray for a while at first - an entirely reasonable reaction to being dead and here - but now he's in the kitchen, apparently having moved on to making himself some food. There didn't seem to be much else to do, and sticking to routine is easiest.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
week 2
no subject
She needs to see what's going on.
And so she swings the door open, runs in the direction that would normally lead down the hall to try and check on the others, and makes the painful discovery that everything outside her room is mirrored, too. By which I mean you may be looking down the dressing room hallway and find the little blue-haired kid running straight into the wall. She falls down and whines.]
Oww... What's the big idea?
no subject
A pin, or a girl's scream.
It's a familiar voice. Even if it wasn't, it would draw D-ne from where she is, sitting quietly in the lobby with a clipboard, to the dressing room hallway. Familiar but not enough to immediately place, familiar but unfamiliar enough that she can instantly think it can't be, it can't possibly be, of all people, not--
There's a whining little princess, sitting before her. D-ne can't breathe.]
H- Hime...-san...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
Hime? What are you doing here?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
week 3
no subject
He's by no means a familiar-looking man, though he might remind some of Captain Hook. Perhaps it is, in fact, Captain Hook. After all, nobody would willingly want to dress themselves in a fashion to make them-self look like Captain Hook. Regardless of who he is, he stumbles around the building in a almost whimsical haze, staring vacantly and speaking to himself as he moves about. He taps his hook against a wall and grumbles.]
Oof. [He struggles to find his words for a moment, panting, looking all around for someone to speak to before he raises his voice again.] This was...it was, quite a trip. Yes.
no subject
Who... Captain...Hook...-san...? Or- someone wearing his clothes?
[being dead in the opera gets weirder by the week]
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
...What's going on?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
...monsieur, are you alright? [Obviously he's dead, but this man seems...well, like he's unwell even beyond that.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Wait... waiiiiit... noooooooo....]
no subject
Then her head clears and she remembers. Darla, Hook, the struggle, a sudden pain in her head and darkness...and then everything else comes flooding back. She leaps out of bed, nearly falling flat on her face when rush of blood to her head leaves her dizzy and the blankets tangle around her limbs. She stays there for a long time, letting the memories settle into place and become real.
Angelica, her children, the Reynolds Pamphlet, forgiveness (can you imagine?), the election, Alexander-
Best of wives and best of women.
She doesn't cry this time. She's shed her tears for Alexander and though it's all she really wants to do right now, she can't. She knows she can't.
I stop wasting time on tears.
When Eliza finally emerges from her dressing room, she's detangled herself but since there are no extra clothes in her room she's still in the nightgown and black robe she was killed in. She cautiously stands in the hall, looking back and forth at the mirrored area. It's almost like she's waiting for someone.
Oh, I can't wait to see you again
It's only a matter of time]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
There's so much to explore, so throughout the week she looks through the library, the media room, the prop room- nothing really holds her attention for long, but she's trying to distract herself, at least? Most days, she'll be around the tea room, lost in thought and idle, but seeming to enjoy her time there.
Thursday she drifts about until she reaches the ballroom. There's so much swimming in her head, so much that she can barely stand it. The times she's sung have never been to understand something, but...maybe, this time... She sits at the piano, and she lets herself get lost in the thought of the music. Even if she's not the best piano player, with how things work, maybe...
Sure enough, she starts to play, effortlessly.]
Where did I get all these memories?
I feel there's something I should be remembering.
Though I can't seem to recall it,
I have a strange feeling that I just can't forget.
Failed again, I've given up chase
But when I close my eyes I see your nameless face.
There must have been something about you,
But I just can't recall and I don't know what to do.
Let's get a ribbon and measure the world,
Then let's run circles 'round the sun before we char and burn.
But we don't need a map, or road,
We'll chase the blackness of the night that's somehow filled with hope.
Failed again, I've given up chase,
But when I close my eyes I see your nameless face.
As the dew drops settles in my eyes,
I still can't hear your gentle voice piercing through the night.
I don't know, anything,
I just don't know anymore.
You want me to stay here,
Is that too much to ask for?
And it hurts, hurts my head
I can't sleep; restless in bed
But if you knew all this,
You'd laugh, and break my heart in two.
Let's count these simple feeling,
Let's list them all out
And yet I forgot that warm feeling
The one I'd get when you're next to me
Bye-bye my beloved,
We won't meet again.
And yet I'm stuck here in this limbo;
In this state that I can't emote.
I don't know what to do,
And only laughter escapes my throat...
[If approached, she'll keep singing. It seems she's determined to keep going. It seems she's not even aware of anyone.]
You're like a donut with a hole,
So full but empty, and will never quite be whole
And now I'm wondering if you were here,
Or just a fragment of my memory that's now unclear.
Failed again, I've given up chase,
But when I close my eyes I see your nameless face.
Yet another night with restless sleep.
I struggle now without you here, wedged between the sheets.
"No I don't want to die."
Want to know what it feels like?
It won't bring peace or piece together all that you've lost.
Time has passed, we don't last,
My memory turns to glass.
I am the donut hole,
The unwanted, without a soul.
Can't count these complex feeling,
Can't list them all out.
This strange life of mine without hearing
Your voice, forgetting how it sounds.
Bye-bye my beloved,
We won't meet again
And yet I'm stuck here in this limbo;
In this state that I can't emote.
I don't know what to do,
And all my tears flow until I choke.
A gaping hole has opened,
Right up in my chest.
And in this emptiness I'm lonely,
It's my only proof that you were here.
Come back my beloved,
Oh, come back to me...!
My heart in ribbons falls to the floor,
And there's nothing that I can do...
Let's count these simple feeling,
Let's list them all out,
And yet I forgot that warm feeling
The one I'd get when you're next to me!
Bye-bye my beloved,
We won't meet again.
And in the end I start to feel complete,
With a face that I remembered.
I take a deep breath,
And I open my eyes now to confess.
I have opened my eyes,
I have opened my eyes,
That name of yours I realize-
[...D-ne's mouth hangs open, as if she's frozen in place. Her eyes remain shut and after a moment her face skews up in pain and frustration, and she pitches forward on to the keys, hands gripping her head futilely.]
media room
(no subject)
(no subject)
you know those times when you're so out of it that you write a tag and then don't send it
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
But oh, what she remembers. That stupid, stupid, cat, dancing on her stage. The lot of them in her spotlight like they belong there. She finally gets to the top only to be met by a bunch of mangy Animals.
She sits up, running a tongue over her teeth and it takes a moment to realize where she is. This hideous excuse for a dressing room, looking just like it did the first day she came here.
Furious. She settles on being furious.
She kicks off her sheets and climbs from the bed, throwing open the door and stomping into the hallway. She draws in a breath, ready to bellow for Max though it will do her no good, and she stops as the backwards-ness of the room and the hall sinks in.
Absolutely furious.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
week 4
no subject
And for a moment, she panicked when she realized this was the ceiling of the dressing room she was staring at. Oh. Oh no. They didn't--they didn't--
She immediately popped up in her bed, finding herself in...wait. Is this her room? It looks weird. Opposite. Also, her cheek felt weird. She rubs it, confusingly. Had she slept on it oddly? Or...?
...No, never mind. Its not important. Something strange is happening here. She quietly gets out of her bed, that feeling of apprehension growing as she enters the hallway, finding the room numbers askew from before. She goes towards the kitchen - only to find she's nearing the ballroom. She goes to the lobby, looking up at the chandelier, before saying anything to the seemingly empty Opera House.]
Hey, has time finally disappeared?
I can't feel it anymore...
I can almost hear that distant moment
Of a point many millennium ago
This must be the last change
The last change
I hope the right thing happened...
[She slowly goes up the stairs, finding herself on the second floor. Ah...opposite also. This is...a lot to take in. Still seemingly empty.
...
Maybe she...should just sit down somewhere. She is where the media room is, so she'll just...sit in there. Maybe watch a movie or something if there is one. Anything to try and calm herself down at the possibility that...she...that everyone...
...
She hears nothing in her mind in return, as she settles into one of the chairs, a movie blasting from the speakers as she turns it on.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
[dead twice over and still in the opera house, cool. i guess he'll start poking around this mirrored version of hell. although he's going to just kind of look around the opera house and he can be found pretty much anywhere, he's probably mostly looking for valjean and astarte lets be real]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Do you like the banana ones or the peanut butter ones more? I can't pick!
[Later, you can find Hime in the media room, watching the movies... and you'll probably hear her yelling at the TV first.]
This is boring! Who even wrote this one? It's insulting to everything! We should have just mailed this back to the Management and made them watch it!
[Hime, what are you watching. No wonder she's complaining about it.]
no subject
Sometime around Wednesday night she notices something strange, though? Various places on each floor but the first, she keeps getting activity. It's always for a flash, an instant, but it was the same the last night... So, she suspiciously starts lurking about, clicking her tongue and lingering around the bar or the media room- or just wandering about the floors in general.]
Hmm... How...odd, how incredibly odd.
[It frustrates her more than anything. This week she's going to be very focused on trying to figure it out- lucky they don't really need to sleep, huh? She murmurs a song to herself as she goes about.]
The lights in town, so bright and yet so colorful,
The chill I feel when ether injects.
It's 2 AM, so tired is my sleepless soul,
All things I see they swiftly change...
[She clicks her tongue.]
Just what do we have to expect for this weekend? They better...
[She continues her farce of a patrol.]
media room
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
week 5
no subject
There's no bleeding. The shortness of breath is gone, but not the pain. It still aches where the bullet ripped through. She runs her hands over her face, then holds her face in her hands for a few minutes, just - processing. Thinking about what happened, and remembering...
You did everything just right.
As she remembers, it's the things from home that come first. Henry. Her mother. Her... It was her birthday. She turned seventeen. Then the gunshot, the blood, and the darkness overtaking everything... Her hands shift to her mouth as the swell of sorrow and fear and anger all catch up to her at once. First she lets out a noise that's half crying, half screaming, near hysterical, heartbroken and raw. She doesn't know what she was expecting after that. Nothingness? Paradise? She just knows that as she takes in her surroundings, she wasn't expecting to be here, and she doesn't know what to make of it. What just happened was overwhelming in every sense, and this isn't any different, and for a few minutes she just starts to sob, feeling bile rise in her throat, hot and sour. She has to fight not to vomit.
Once she approaches some modicum of calm, she rises and walks out of the room, eyes red. It's still the theater... She wonders if she's trapped here, if she's being punished for something. She wanders aimlessly through the floors, not really engaging with anything, but she will at least stop if she sees anyone. She almost expected to be stuck here alone, somehow.]
Oh - you're here.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
Look at this one! It's supposed to symbolize all of us! Even if the living don't see this, I'm still going to put it on the wall.
[Good luck with that.
Later, she'll be in the chapel, sitting not in the pews but on the steps near the altar. She looks up at the ceiling and sighs.]
I feel light, even in my darkest hour,
That's probably why they act as
If I'm not grounded by a heavy heart
And by the deeds we have done.
Maybe I really am too young.
Will darkness complete me?
But I still don't think that's the case
As I feel the rain of silent pain
That burns endlessly.
Opera House, prison of all who live here,
The stage of this show we have departed,
As long as we're kept from our eternal sleep,
I'll smile and spread hope inside.
So let the light show me the way,
The darkness already here,
Though they think that it's gone away
As I gift my friends who've met their ends
Hope for everything
I feel light, even in my darkest hour
I feel light...
art studio
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
art studio
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
chapel
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
Despite what she's told Natalie, or Hime, D-ne doesn't hold any foolishly preconceived notion that even a "victory" involving achieving story-melding powers will lead anywhere good for her. Maybe the others, yes. The ones with lives to go back to that are less...narrative than her own. Ah, a narrator... How she wishes she could have with this knowledge talked to the Balladeer. She wonders if he's keeping a semblance of order, at least.
If this is to be her last few days of this larger limbo (would even death free her, would it be freeing if she could be without--?) then she will make the most of it. She will play the piano in the music room, usually looping back around to her ever-familiar melody.
She tries her hand at some creativity in the art studio! ...Yeah that won't last long honestly, she is a horrible artist, if that little gift they left for the living isn't enough of an indicator. Anything she draws or paints (more cats?) is quickly going to be crumpled up. ...Or thrown in the kiln, she'll see if it can burn.
And...she'll be seated in the costume shop, going through...a box of ribbons. Like weeks ago. Before her...all colors of the rainbow, arranged methodically, are the ribbons from the box. Obviously, she's not looking for anything. No, she just sits there. The red ribbon is now out of her hair, and she holds it lovingly.
A little song makes its way past her lips.]
Easily playing, never bat an eye.
Smiling and posing, another "perfect" alibi.
Every day lonely, I’d rather play a game,
Like a slow running stream of honey I crave.
Looking at you now, yes, and even you
Was I unneeded? Was I just in the way, too?
Call me a phantom, never meant to be.
Wouldn’t it be more fun to party and scream?
Now
My, oh my, oh make your way to me.
Clap your hands and walk, oh ra-tta-tta.
Why, oh why, oh hurry up and leave,
And again I come to see, I’ve been a very bad girl.
music room
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
costume room
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...